


anyone's ghost

by caesarions



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Study, Jealousy, Love Triangles, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-Coital, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16202384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesarions/pseuds/caesarions
Summary: Rome has fallen.After decades of Muslim invasions, so has Sasanian Persia’s reputation. Just when Persia thought he could become the center of the Silk Road again, the center of China’s love life again, he faces his own Great Wall.The wall is not new—only fortified.





	anyone's ghost

**Author's Note:**

> i originally wrote this for my 'WANTON, or, the silk road love triangle' series (duh), but after changing the trajectory, this fic now takes place a century after when i want to end that series. instead of throwing the baby out with the bathwater, i'm posting this as a standalone one-shot. but if you enjoy this little preview, then you'll enjoy that series, too!
> 
> TITLE: it comes from the national's song of the same name.
> 
> NAMES: 
> 
> china - wang min (clever king)
> 
> rome - lucius marius priscus romulus (shining; of mars or masculine; ancient; the mythical founder, 'mr. rome')
> 
> persia - ardashir (one whose reign is based on honesty and justice)

**672 AD, Chang'an, Shaanxi**

* * *

 It wasn't fair, Ardashir brooded.

It wasn't fair that Min had never accepted Persian aid or presents, running straight into Romulus’ arms like a eager virgin instead—when nothing could be further from the truth.

It wasn't fair that as soon as Min had regained his footing, blossoming under the Tang, Ardashir’s had spiraled out of control.

It wasn't fair that, at the other end of the world and 200 years past Romulus’ demise, his ghost still had the audacity to stroll into the room at any time. The supernatural created an unbridgeable void between them, and Ardashir was no Roman architect.

It wasn't fair that _this_ had not been his idea in the first place, but now, Ardashir was the only one reaping any sort of consequences as they lied on the bed together.

It wasn't fair that every single soul in the Chinese capital reported that Chang’an meant _perpetual peace_ , but he felt like tigers were tearing at him from the inside, vying to be released.

Ardashir lied curled up into a tight ball. His hands shook like the earthquakes of his homeland when he observed them. Facing the rest of the chamber allowed Ardashir to stare at his discarded clothing, rather than Min by his side. Anything but Min.

The hard surface of the _kang_ gave Ardashir kinks in his back. When explained to him, Ardashir thought a raised stove-bed would be heavenly, as the weather of Northern China still unnerved him. Ardashir preferred the deserts of his empire. If he was ever in the mountains, he was probably on campaign or a fugitive, and neither were pleasant experiences.

But neither compared to this agony. All of the silken pillows and blankets had been kicked away in the process, and the pair had been only left with the exposed brick. The design hadn't been made with _this_ in mind—or had it? There was little space available on the bed, and Min was a man of calculation. In reality, the _kang_ was probably for sitting and entertaining guests. In these days, Ardashir supposed that could mean anything.

And as a guest, he wasn't very entertained.

“How long do you plan on staying?”

Ardashir jumped out of his skin, shivering and retracting into himself. But, after centuries of courting Min and pretending to be something he was not, no physical reaction showed. Instead, Ardashir lifted his head with extreme effort, glancing in Min’s direction. “What do you mean?”

Only a slight but damning waver in pitch betrayed him. Ardashir supposed he had heard _worse_ things after…

“Just you,” Min elaborated with a yawn. “Your Prince Peroz will stay here as a guest without time restraint. I will continue to aid his rebellion militarily. I may even help him regain the throne someday. Your other Zoroastrian refugees will be settled in my city. But _you_ need to meet the Muslims.”

“Thank you,” Ardashir huffed in response to Min’s basic human decency.

The poor boy—Peroz III would grow soft in the Daming Palace, no doubt. Ardashir had only been here a week, and he already felt sluggish and weak-willed. However, that was most likely a side-effect of the company Ardashir kept and not all Chinese. However, their heady, red-orange lighting, mythological architecture, and timeless faces did not help guests ground themselves in reality.

Perhaps the two Persians’ situations couldn't be compared. Peroz had the murder of his father, the last Sasanian king of Persia, buzzing about his head as a fly. Ardashir had the entire death of Persia gnawing at his bones. Peroz’s marriage had been loving and faithful. Ardashir’s love life was a battlefield greater than any he faced in the Middle East.

“...I suppose I’ll humor the enemy,” Ardashir continued, letting his head fall heavily onto the brick. Sure, it hurt, but it served to remind him that _this_ wasn't just a nightmare. “Fix my embarrassing first impression. The Battle of Nahāvand, am I right?”

Min did not laugh, nor did his waterfall of hair sway, which would have signaled any response at all. Ardashir sighed deeply and mumbled, “I will leave in a month, sooner if news arrives.”

“Alright,” Min shrugged. Ardashir glanced his way again, only to witness the same expression on Min that he had always seen.

Ardashir swallowed his ire whole, which went down like a mouthful of sand. Min’s face was as still as clear water, no matter what happened. His liquid, blasé expression acted as a mirror, allowing the other party to stew on their feelings, and usually coming to the conclusion that they were dead wrong.

Min reacted the same way to a ceremony of 20,000 Persian horsemen greeting the Chinese envoy as he did to fighting the Hephthalites with Ardashir by his side. Both were as momentous to Min as getting mud on his shoes after a day’s ride.

The same thin, perfunctory smile was as immortal as they pretended dragons were. Since the Tang nobility compared themselves to those fearsome creatures, Ardashir had no idea why Min had everyone—including a younger, more malleable Ardashir—completely fooled. Dragons were creatures of death and destruction in every culture except the Chinese’s own.

“What was the point?” Itching and impatient, Ardashir flopped morosely onto his back with a slapping noise that would have ruined the mood, had they still been in the heat of things. He had gained a few pounds with every Muslim invasion. Surprisingly enough, it was his only insecurity Min had failed to mention so far. Stress eating claimed all as a victim, even the nigh immortal—save Romulus, Ardashir supposed. He probably died without losing his rippling abs of Mars.

Ardashir wasn’t about to visit the Roman’s tomb and find out.

He could see Min twisting strands of hair about. Ardashir wanted to run his fingers through it too, but he’d been told early on that the hair was off-limits. When Min was above him, the silk waterfall flowed soft and tickling at first, before settling like an impenetrable wall. The Chinese were sure fond of those. When lying on the ground, the strands fanned out like ravenous vines choking the vestiges of life out of an old, decrepit palace.

Min opened his eyes with calculated lethargy; for once, his mouth twisted sourly. “Why does there have to be a point?”

The Persian bit his cheek to avoid making a fool out of himself—a bigger fool than Min already thought him to be, that was. “If it had one, I don’t think I want to know anymore,” Ardashir admitted. It was only a heartbeat before he added, “...Though my guess is it has to do with _him_.”

“Perhaps it does,” Min admitted flatly, though with his special type of quiet, unnerving aplomb. Not every Chinese person had this strange quality of polite destruction—Ardashir had met many of them. It must have been Min’s own cruel trick. “I would not know.”

At any other time in the Persian’s life, Ardashir would have exploded on him by this point. Under his roof and in his bed, now wasn’t the time. Maybe it never was, and maybe it never would be.

The Muslims’ swords had driven him here; they could not also drive him away. In truth, it was not the Muslims’ fault, nor was it the fault of the Roman’s ghost. If Ardashir could have nothing else in this lifetime, he could have honesty.

It was something deep in Ardashir’s character. It was something between the two alive men and their memories that was wrong.

“I don’t know how you mistook me for him,” Ardashir mused quietly, melancholy strangling his voice, “considering you were the one who told me we don’t look alike.”

Min dropped the hair from his hand. Its soft brush on the brick was the most powerful sound Ardashir had ever heard. Min’s voice was quiet, his mouth curling to form another quip. However, his words came as sardonic, dripping with disdain. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

Folding his hands neatly and patiently on his stomach, Ardashir now envied Min’s total control of his expressions. The auditory hint was bad enough, but the confirmation that Min was thinking about someone else the entire time scrunched Ardashir’s face into something painful, puerile, and pitiful. Luckily, he was staring at the ceiling, so the tears pooled in the corners instead of falling.

“If you only wanted a body double, there are many musc— big, tan humans in this world,” Ardashir offered, though it was getting harder and harder to talk without sounding hysterical. "I could even find you one with curly, brown hair." Quite coincidentally, the Roman's hair had always looked like mud to Ardashir.

Min set his gaze on Ardashir for the first time, his apathy almost lethal—the acerbic, intentional version rather than a glazed laziness. “I know.”

Ardashir’s skin was burning, sweat appearing on his forehead. He clamped his arms around his chest and drew his legs up slowly. “I think I’ll leave now.”

Ardashir only made it to sitting on the edge of the bed, his old bones creaking after all of the mountain air and near-death experiences. Min’s hand shot out, the porcelain forming a claw around the Persian’s tricep. When Ardashir turned back with wide eyes, Min cemented his other hand behind Ardashir’s head, dragging him back with such a strength that Ardashir berated himself for forgetting Min possessed.

Min’s mouth was on his immediately. Ardashir brought his legs back up, crawling to the center of the _kang_. Min lied on the only pillow left, bringing Ardashir to hover over him.

Trying to break away, Ardashir looked down at Min with heavy breathing and his brows furled. When Min only challenged him with the same dead eyes, something in Ardashir also died. He didn’t think it possible to perish before your people—not that his fate wasn’t coming soon. He shut his eyes tightly, leaning down on violently shaking arms to continue the kiss.

It wasn’t fair that Ardashir still enjoyed this.

It wasn’t fair some things about Min were _off-limits_ except for a dead man that was hopefully barred from all afterlives.

It wasn’t fair that, back in Parthian times, he had been tricked into stepping down as gatekeeper of the Silk Road. He had been tricked into allowing Min and Romulus’ letters to flow freely through _his_ mail routes.

It wasn’t fair that, though he had facilitated its blossoming, Ardashir would never understand the role Romulus had played in Min’s life.

It wasn’t fair that he could never comprehend how the two had gotten so close, and it wasn’t fair that he could ask Min about any of it.

It wasn’t fair that maybe he didn’t need to.


End file.
